The Silence After
by wendymarlowe
Summary: Sherlock may have physically survived his abduction, but in his mind he'll never be whole again. John understands PTSD, understands what Sherlock is going through, and is determined to be patient. Angst, hurt/comfort, and eventual Johnlock as Sherlock tries to rebuild his ability to trust. (Trigger warnings for oblique descriptions of past torture and rape.)
1. Chapter 1

It's John who finally finds Sherlock, that chilly January morning. John who takes one look at Sherlock's battered body and fires off two shots in rapid succession, hitting Sherlock's two captors squarely between the eyes and crumpling them to the floor even though they were already backing away with their hands raised and their guns clattering to the ground. Sherlock is dimly aware of other footfalls overhead, Mycroft's men clearing the old farmhouse, but his attention is squarely on John, good and honest and strong John, who is regarding him with something like pity in his soft brown eyes. Sherlock turns his head away, grinding his forehead into the dirt floor, covering his face with his hands as much as the chains on his wrists allow.

"Don't look," he rasps, his voice harsh from weeks of disuse. "I can't - don't look at me."

John's footsteps falter, then resume their steady approach. He doesn't try to speak, just kneels next to Sherlock's broken body - close enough Sherlock could have curled around him, if he had still been strong enough to move - and waits. Sherlock can hear his labored breaths - John had been running. Adrenaline, then, adrenaline and strenuous exercise and oh God, he's leaning over Sherlock's torso and running those cooly professional hands over Sherlock's chest and Sherlock can't control his violent flinch.

"Easy," John murmurs, as if Sherlock were a skittish wild animal in need of taming. And in some sense that might be true.

"John-" But then Sherlock can't think of any words, can't think of a single thing to say to express how grateful and mortified and ashamed he is, so he closes his mouth and curls further in on himself and tries not to fight off John's careful fingertips grazing over his ribcage. John doesn't comment on Sherlock's nakedness, on the obvious bruises dotting his back and hips and bare arse, and Sherlock finds that once again, he's grateful for John-the-soldier and John-the-medic and John-who-just-understands.

A noise at the door - Sherlock looks up, not able to conceal the instinctive tensing of his muscles. But it's Mycroft, ubiquitous umbrella in hand but with his suit jacket askew and his hair mussed on the right side. Who looks for a long moment at the two corpses sprawled near the far wall and raises an eyebrow.

"Accident?" he asks John.

"Very much on purpose," John replies through gritted teeth, never looking away from Sherlock's face, even as his gentle fingertips steal around to Sherlock's back, probing at the more recent burn marks and the long, angry welts.

Mycroft huffs, then nods. An uncomfortable pause. Then: "How is he?"

"Bastards were careful," John says darkly. "Prolonging it. Too early to tell if there will be permanent physical damage, but he needs his wrist set and he's going to need more patching up than I can do here. We've got to get him to hospital."

Sherlock clutches at John's arm, the pain in his broken wrist negligible compared to the sudden panic coursing through him. "No hospital," he croaks out in barely more than a whisper, the loudest his vocal chords will allow. "Want you."

John's lips compress. "Sherlock-"

"Please."

He never begs. Even when his captors were doing their worst, their most painful experimentations on his body, Sherlock stayed silent. John understands the plea for what it is and grips Sherlock's undamaged hand in a tight squeeze.

"All right," he says.

And that is that.

Mycroft protests, tries to appeal to John's sense of logic, but Sherlock keeps gripping John's hand as tightly as he can and eventually even Mycroft has to accept the inevitable. He strides out of the room, and within minutes there is a stretcher at the door and an earnest young man is rifling through Sherlock's captors' pockets until he comes up with a hefty key, which he uses to unlock the steel cuffs around Sherlock's ankles and wrists. Sherlock does recoil, now, but the young man works quickly and efficiently and in less than a minute, he's helping John load Sherlock onto the stretcher. John drapes his own coat over Sherlock's naked body, then Mycroft is back with a heavy orange blanket which does nothing to stop the tremors in Sherlock's body but at least hides his nudity from Mycroft's men.

"I can't fix you up alone," John murmurs from his position at the head of the stretcher, his lips nearly touching Sherlock's ear in an effort to not be overheard. "Would it be okay if I asked Molly to come over and help? Or someone else, if you'd rather."

* * *

Sherlock licks his lips and manages a tiny nod. He cares that John is seeing him like this - bloody, bruised, nearly non-verbal - but Molly is different. Molly is useful. Molly will pity him and he won't care because it doesn't matter what she thinks about him - only John. Once again, John has proven he understands Sherlock more than anyone else ever had.

The ride home is agonizing, but John is there at Sherlock's side the entire time, fingers threaded through Sherlock's matted, overgrown curls and murmuring a quiet litany containing nothing of substance whatsoever. It's exactly what Sherlock needs. When they get back to 221B, Sherlock is unsurprised to see Mycroft's influence in the open door, the absence of Mrs. Hudson, the hospital-style surgical table laid out incongruously in the center of the living room. Molly is nearby, dithering, but she perks up when John rattles off a string of military-style orders and she darts off into the kitchen to comply. The earnest young man from before helps John get Sherlock's body transferred to the table, then bows in an overly formal manner and withdraws, presumably to go report back to Mycroft. Sherlock is left alone in the flat with John and an anxious Molly.

He often forgets that Molly has had actual medical training, too, but it's evident in her steady stitches and her immediate understanding of everything John says. John starts her cleaning and suturing the deep gash on Sherlock's left ankle as he himself inspects the charred spots on Sherlock's back.

"I'm sorry," he says softly, before wiping something over Sherlock's skin which causes it to absolutely catch _fire _once more. Sherlock chokes back a shout, holding it in for John's sake, so John won't feel worse about doing what has to be done. John's forehead wrinkles anyway, that pinched look when he's concerned about something, and Sherlock hates himself even more for being the cause of that concern. There's nothing he can say, though, nothing to make the situation any less real, so he bites the inside of his cheek and tries not to make a sound.

John and Molly work mostly in silence, their only speech the staccato of medical terminology necessary to maneuver around each other's work. John keeps Molly busy on Sherlock's extremities - his fractured wrist, the gouges where the manacles cut into his ankles, the welts across the bottoms of his feet - while he himself focuses on Sherlock's core. Sherlock knows exactly what John is seeing, has spent many lonely hours in the dark cataloging his own injuries. Serious burns on his back, ranging from first- to third-degree in places. Several shallow cuts on his abdomen and around his groin, some of which are infected and none of which were prone to healing properly as long as Sherlock was being held captive in the dark, in the dirt basement, malnourished and dehydrated. Bruises all over, evidence of his captors' casual wallops whenever they returned him to his room and chained him down again. And bloody, cracked fissures in and around his arse, which Sherlock was never able to really see and couldn't bear to touch.

John does look and touch, now, carefully professional. He's not stupid, he knows what causes that kind of tissue tearing, and Sherlock can't bear for John to know. The reality of being held down and used was one thing, but having John _know _is infinitely worse. He never says a word, though, just keeps the blanket angled so Molly can't see, doesn't _know _the way he knows. Molly might guess, but she says nothing either.

The whole process takes hours. Sherlock dozes for some of it, caught halfway between the pain and the relief in knowing his captors were dead and he was back home. _Home_. He may be physically back in 221B, but he'll never be _home _again.


	2. Chapter 2

John works quickly and silently, only communicating with Molly when absolutely necessary. His mind is a whirlpool of hate - hate for Lestrade and Mycroft for not expending more resources and sooner, hate for the goons he had dropped with one bullet apiece with absolutely no remorse, hate for the still-unknown mastermind behind it all, and most of all, hate for himself. Because if he had been a better flatmate, more understanding of Sherlock's mercurial moods, he wouldn't have yelled about the perfectly predictable mess in the kitchen. And if he hadn't yelled, Sherlock might not have stalked out the door to go sulk elsewhere. And if Sherlock hadn't gone to sulk alone in the bowels of London, he wouldn't have been kidnapped and wouldn't have left John frantic with worry for five weeks, four days, six hours, and twenty-three minutes. And now he wouldn't be lying nearly catatonic on a cold surgical table, trembling no matter how gently John was touching him.

It's a relief to just let the medical side of his training take over, to let his mind settle firmly into the haze of "battlefield medic" and just work on autopilot. Molly isn't so lucky - she's making a litany of tiny shocked sounds, little sad noises and then the telltale silence afterward while she tries very hard not to think how Sherlock got each particular injury. From the pain marring her expression, John can tell she's failing.

When he and Molly, between the two of them, have cleaned and bandaged and salved and sutured and set as many of Sherlock's injuries as possible, John lays a careful palm on the least damaged part of Sherlock's shoulder and rouses him gently.

"Let's get you to bed," he says, as if this were any other night and Sherlock were merely falling asleep on the sofa.

Molly hovers, ready to offer support if needed, but John manages to hoist Sherlock up and drape his arm (the one without the fractured wrist) over his own shoulder, and somehow Sherlock is able to stumble to his bed. Mrs. Hudson put clean sheets on it ages ago, and someone had obviously been in to draw the duvet back and lay out an assortment of useful items on the bedside table - a neatly folded washcloth, a glass of water, Sherlock's mobile. John levers Sherlock down onto the sheets, pulls the blanket up over him, and steps away to turn out the light and give Sherlock some space.

"Wait."

John turns.

I don't . . ." Sherlock licks his cracked lips. "Stay. Please."

John hesitates, then bows his head. "Give me a second. Is that - is that okay?"

Sherlock doesn't answer, but keeps his eyes steady on John.

"Right then." John darts back out to the living room, leaving the door open so Sherlock can see him through the frame of the doorway. He grabs his own mobile and laptop from the desk and whispers a quick thanks and some instructions to Molly, asking her to only tell Mycroft the generalities of Sherlock's condition. It's Sherlock's story to tell, anyway. He's out of the bedroom less than a minute, but by the time he gets back Sherlock is already gripping the sheets with white knuckles and rocking slightly.

"Hush," John murmurs, repressing the urge to stroke Sherlock's hair as if he were a small child. "Do you - do you want me to lie next to you for a while? Or pull in a chair?"

Sherlock swallows, eyes wide, but stays silent.

"Right then." John comes around to the opposite side of Sherlock's bed, toes off his shoes and socks, and slides under the covers. He's still in the button-down and jeans he put on that morning, before Mycroft called and said they had finally found the location where the kidnappers were holding Sherlock. The knees of the jeans are filthy from the dirt floor of Sherlock's basement prison, and the shirt has streaks of Sherlock's blood in odd places. John hesitates only a moment before stripping both off, still under the covers, so he's lying on the silky sheets in just his pants. Next to his naked flatmate. In any other situation John would be mortified, would be sure this was crossing a line which was Not Meant To Be Crossed, but Sherlock is breathing more freely now that they can feel each other's body heat under the blanket. John tosses his rumpled clothes to the floor and pulls the duvet over both of them, so Sherlock won't freeze even though he's still completely nude. Sherlock shivers anyway.

John had intended to spend some time checking the blog, seeing if any new comments might provide a lead as to who, exactly, had managed to kidnap Sherlock, but the comfort of Sherlock's mattress and the incredible relief he's feeling at having Sherlock home combine to make his eyelids heavy. He manages a single text to Mycroft, proclaiming success and demanding not to be bothered for at least twelve hours, then he drifts off next to his already sleeping flatmate.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock awakens to most of his body feeling varying degrees of pain, which is no longer unusual. What is unusual is the softness of the pillow under his head and the warmth of the body next to him. He shifts - drawing an agonized grunt from his own throat in the process - and turns his face enough to see John's fawn-brown eyes open and watching him.

"How are you feeling?" John asks quietly.

"Terrible." No sense in trying to prevaricate.

John's gaze flicks to the digital clock on Sherlock's nightstand. "It's just past six in the morning - you've been asleep for almost twelve hours. I should check how your burns are doing."

Sherlock manages - with more help from John than he really wants to admit - to roll onto his stomach so John can peel back the dressings. The sheet falls down to drape over the top of his hips, but neither he nor John call attention to the fact that he's naked under it. John makes no sound, just gently brushes the unburned sections of skin with his fingertips and then replaces the gauze with fresh squares pulled from sterile packaging he must have already had at the ready. Which indicates he has been awake for a while, watching Sherlock doze. The thought is comforting.

"They're better, aren't they." Not a question.

John hums noncommittally. "Going to be a while before you can lie on your back, and you'll have some scarring. But yes."

John is the type of friend who would lie through his teeth rather than tell Sherlock a painful truth, so Sherlock tries not to place too much stock in his words. Although he can't help allowing a small bit of hope.

"I should . . . check over the rest of you. Wrist first?"

John's examination is slow and thorough, and not at all awkward for all they're lying in Sherlock's bed together. The sheets are no longer quite white, instead stained with small rust-colored spots where blood seeped through some of the bandages. The effect screams "hospital" rather than anything untoward. Sherlock hates hospitals, but he can tolerate this. For John's sake.

The only moment of true discomfort is when John finally removes the sheet from the bed entirely and Sherlock is left completely without barriers between his nakedness and John's examination. Sherlock is uncomfortably aware of both his unclothed state and the obvious marks left on his body. John's touch is professional, though, gently working antiseptic ointment into Sherlock's injured skin over the myriad of places it is needed. Neither of them speak.

"Now that you're as patched up as you can get at the moment," John says with false brightness, "what do you want next? I can help you to the loo, I can bring you breakfast, I can fill you in on everything that's been happening while we searched for you, or I can just let you get some more sleep."

Sherlock stifles an unauthorized yawn. He ought to need the loo, he knows, but he's severely dehydrated and his body isn't producing urine in any significant quantity. The idea of jumping back into The Work, even to catch his own kidnappers, is . . . not appealing. And he's already slept more than he can possibly stand in one stretch.

"Food, I suppose. And something liquid."

John nods solemnly. "Did you - how much were you allowed to eat?"

It's the closest he's come so far to asking Sherlock what happened. Sherlock appreciates his reticence, because he's not really ready to talk about it anyway, but his diet seems a neutral enough introduction to the topic.

"My perception of time eventually began to distort, but I believe I was given an average of one meal a day, at varying times. Smallish but adequate to sustain life." He swallows against the dryness in his throat at the memory. "I'd rather save the analyzing for later."

"That's - that's fine." John nods again, putting on a fine show of nonchalance. "Just wanted to know if there's anything you particularly want - or want to avoid. Should probably stay away from greasy and fatty foods until your body has had time to adjust back to normal."

Even the idea of something greasy has Sherlock's stomach clenching. "Please."

"Right then. You going to be okay with me being in the kitchen? I can keep talking, if you like."

Sherlock nods, barely a movement at all, but as far as he can with making his neck hurt more. "Can you sing?" he asks.

John bites his lip, but smiles a bit. "Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling . . ."

_Danny Boy_ - both verses, then repeated - lasts through the mechanical ding of the toaster ejecting its prey. _When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again_ lasts through the rest of John's preparations. He softens the last line as he re-enters the bedroom, carrying two plates with toast, sliced tomatoes, breakfast tea, and a scrambled egg apiece.

"You realize both of those songs are about soldiers finally coming back home," Sherlock observes.

John ducks his head, looking a bit sheepish. "Didn't really think about it."

"No, it's . . . fine. Just thought them an interesting choice."

"Because I was a soldier?"

Sherlock locks gazes with him. "No - because I'm back." _Did you expect a triumphant return, or a lament? Because you got neither._

"Ah." No further commentary.

They eat their breakfast side-by-side on the bed, John cutting Sherlock's tomatoes for him like he's a small child, because Sherlock only has the use of one hand. Sherlock hates the sensation of being an invalid, but John doesn't call attention to it so they both just ignore how Sherlock winces every time he chews, and how he shifts position every few minutes because there's no comfortable way to sit upright. His feet are worse, though, angry red welts from the captors' whip, so he won't be doing much _except _sitting for quite a while.

Breakfast finished, Sherlock curls back up on his side and closes his eyes. John settled in next to him, laptop on lap, and starts composing an accurate but stern email to Mycroft.


	4. Chapter 4

The email doesn't deter him, of course. John had told Mycroft to give them twelve hours of peace, so John's phone rings after exactly twelve hours. John looks over at his sleeping flatmate, slips out of bed, and answers the call in his own bedroom upstairs.

"You couldn't at least wait until I called you?"

Mycroft's glower is practically audible over the phone. "I do care, despite Sherlock's best efforts to prevent it."

"Yeah, well fuck your good intentions." The expletive slips out more easily than John expected. "He's going to need some time - a _lot _of time - to heal. Physically and mentally. So take whatever case you're anxious to have him consult on and shove it up where it belongs."

"I'd assumed he'd want to be involved in finding his own kidnapper."

"He would, if he were up to it." John sighs. "Just, please - trust me on this one. Whatever state you imagine he's in, I guarantee you it's worse."

The silence on the other end of the line is deafening.

And John feels a tiny bit of remorse - it must be hard to not be able to do anything, to not have the option of just _being there_, feeling needed. Not that Mycroft's needs should trump Sherlock's, but any means, but it's not fair to ignore them entirely.

John clears his throat and tries again. "Um. I guess . . . if you can give me an overview - a _very _brief sketch - of what you learn, I will promise to pass on the information as soon as he's ready to hear it."

A pause, then a sigh. "Very well," Mycroft says. "I'll get you clearance and call back in about half an hour-"

"Clearance?" John interrupts. And suddenly pieces of the puzzle, pieces he knew before but never bothered to ponder, start to come together. John doesn't like what he sees. "This is about you," he says softly.

". . . Yes."

"This whole thing - Sherlock being kidnapped in the first place, the torture, the kidnapper's lack of demands-" John breaks off. "But there were. Demands. You just didn't tell me. Us."

"They weren't anything you needed to know."

_"Bullshit." _John stalks over to his door and closes it, praying the extra barrier will keep his shouting from waking Sherlock. _"YOU KNEW." _He pauses, takes a deep breath, tries to consciously lower his voice. _"You knew," _he spits out. "Your little brother was being fucking _tortured _and you had the means to stop it and you did _nothing_."

"Untrue," Mycroft counters. "I did everything in my power to track down his location and help bring him back."

"Everything except _actually share the kidnapper's demands with the Yard_. With me."

"They weren't in my power to grant," Mycroft says softly.

And suddenly John is _done_. "You can just fuck off, Mycroft Holmes," he enunciates clearly into his phone. "If you call me again I will block your number from both my and Sherlock's phones, and if you call again after that I will personally shoot out every security camera within ten blocks of Baker Street."

"Unwise," Mycroft mutters.

"I don't fucking care. Sherlock will call you _if _and when he fucking well wants to, and I can guarantee that won't be anytime soon. I would encourage you to keep your distance - I can't guarantee what I'd do if I saw you right now while I was armed."

"Most would consider it an act of stupidity to threaten me," Mycroft says softly.

John lets out a long breath. "Not stupidity. Loyalty. Goodbye, Mycroft."

He turns his phone off, leaves it on his bedside table, and goes back downstairs to check on Sherlock.


	5. Chapter 5

It takes another forty-eight hours before Sherlock can actually wear clothes again without the friction of the cloth exacerbating his injuries. Molly stops by with some hospital gowns, terrible blue-green overwashed cotton impractical garments, but Sherlock can hear John meet her at the door, thank her politely, and rebuff her hopeful hint that she'd like to see him with her own eyes. He's not ready to see anyone. Not even her.

John brings the gowns into the bedroom, helps Sherlock get one on and tie it around his waist. It's soft but provides little warmth. It also leaves his arse bare, but after half a dozen sessions of John examining every inch of his injured skin and staying reassuringly detached throughout, Sherlock has no reason to object. They never speak, when John is in doctor mode, nothing except professional questions like "How is your wrist feeling?" and "Does that hurt?" and "I need you to flex your foot for me, good, as far as you can, that's it, do you feel that?"

It's humbling to be so helpless. One-handed, can't walk, can't sit for long. Sherlock hates being helpless, would be a quivering wreck if he were having to rely on anyone except John. He knows it, and strongly suspects John knows it too. John calls into the surgery and simply tells them Sherlock needed him, no other explanation, he'll be back eventually if they still want him. No hesitation whatsoever at putting his job in jeopardy for this, for playing nursemaid. Sherlock knows he doesn't deserve this level of trust, of care, but can't bring himself to apologize. Not with words. Only by being the best patient he can be.

And it isn't easy. There's a reason Sherlock hates hospitals: they're unrelentingly _ordinary_. Full of ordinary people with ordinary bodies breaking down in ordinary ways. They're also a reminder that no matter how magnificent his brain is _(was?)_, his own body - transport - is no different than anyone else's. It breaks in the same ordinary ways, and no amount of thinking or deducing or flights of genius can make it repair itself faster. To have his body still be failing him so spectacularly, even after his ordeal, is . . . depressingly plebeian.

His mind, though . . . Sherlock hates that even more. Because how can he assess how damaged his mind is, if he can't trust it to not be damaged? It's a vicious Catch-22: the accuracy of Sherlock's assessment of his cognitive abilities depends on those same cognitive abilities being intact. But if they're not, then his assessment is likely flawed, leading him to believe he's fine when he's not. An under-abundance of reliable data.

And he feels fine. Truly. He keeps reminding himself of that fact - he survived, he's healing, and nothing actually feels slower than normal. And yet.

"Want to talk about it?"

Sherlock freezes.

"It's okay if you don't," John says. "But you've got your thinking face on, and you're going to have to talk about it sometime. Might help to think out loud. Listening is one of my more useful traits, or so you've said."

Sherlock sits up and licks his lips, tries to force words out of his mouth. Some words, any words, long words, short words - Christ, even the _thought _of letting John in and sharing his internal monologue is terrifying. Sherlock is very rarely frightened, of anything, but it's fear keeping his mouth shut now.

John watches him, face blank for another long moment, then flashes a tight smile and returns his attention to his crossword. He's dragged his armchair into Sherlock's bedroom, the better to keep an eye on him without the awkwardness of sharing a bed at all hours of the day. It's okay, somehow, when they're both asleep (or close to it), but the moment Sherlock and John are both awake and alert, John evacuates and retreats to his chair and his tea and his newspaper and his laptop. Physically close, but giving Sherlock space.

Sometimes John is more brilliant than Sherlock ever gives him credit for.

"Boredom," Sherlock finally says.

John puts down his paper (neatly folded, pencil laid diagonally upper-right to lower-left on top) and raises his eyes to Sherlock's face once again.

"I'm not bored," Sherlock admits. "I should be by now. Why am I not bored?"

"You've have an incredibly trying experience-" John starts.

But Sherlock interrupts. "That's done now, though, you see? My body needs time to heal; I accept that. You're doing an eminently adequate job with it-"

"Thank you," John murmurs.

"-but my _mind_. I can't tell if it's in need of healing, too, because I can't tell whether I just _feel _fine or whether I _am _fine. Am I ordinary now, with delusions of genius? If I were still myself, I'd be _bored_. And I'm not."

"You're sleeping sixteen hours a day." John frowns and ticks the reasons off on his fingers. "Your body is frantically trying to heal some pretty major damage, and yes, even for you, your brain is technically just another internal organ. It's not getting priority right now. You've also been bloody well kidnapped, which I know you don't want to think about, but a situation like that leaves marks. Psychological as well as physical. And I know you think psychologists are all shit, but you're going to need to talk to someone eventually. I can give Ella a call, if you want."

Sherlock shakes his head. "Even if I wanted to, Mycroft would read her notes."

"Mycroft can go fuck a cactus."

Sherlock blinks.

And John looks away, shaking his head. "I told him to fuck off, the other day. Actually threatened to shoot him. So I hope you aren't holding out hope for a touching fraternal visit anytime soon."

"Why . . ." Sherlock stills, the evidence rearranging itself in his mind. John, who generally keeps a deathgrip on his temper unless unreasonably provoked. Mycroft meddling. Mycroft undoubtedly spearheading the rescue attempt. And yet taking almost six weeks . . . Sherlock's mouth goes dry. "He left me there?" he whispers.

John tenses, just the slightest bit. Confirmation.

"He had something to do with - with the whole affair." Sherlock is sure now. "And he chose to drag it out. To let them-"

"I don't think it was quite like that," John says quietly. "But yeah, I got the impression you were bait in some political game. Mycroft didn't call their bluff." He raked his hand through his hair. "But it wasn't a bluff, wasn't it."

Not an outright question, but not a statement either. Sherlock takes a deep breath and lets his lets his chin drop in confirmation.

"I may still kill him."

The determination in his words causes a momentary flutter in Sherlock heartbeat.

"I may let you," he says softly. "I - I don't think I can forgive him for this."

"I know," John says. "Me neither."


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock is healing. John tries to remind himself of that, tries to focus on Sherlock's progress as they survive one day, then another. The bruises and smaller abrasions fade first, followed by some of the deeper cuts. John exchanges the splint on Sherlock's wrist for a proper cast. It necessitates another visit from Molly to bring the plaster sheets, but Sherlock manages a small smile and thirty seconds of small talk without insults, a miracle all on its own.

The bathing situation reaches critical mass around the same time as the cast. For the first several days, they manage to make do with John merely running a damp flannel over Sherlock's skin while examining his injuries, both of them afraid to disturb all the dressings and ointments and wrappings. The result is an improvement over Sherlock's condition when he was first rescued, but it's by no means adequate for actual hygiene purposes. John starts and abandons the conversation twice before finally coming right down to it.

"Sherlock, you stink."

Sherlock sighs and grimaces. "Not by choice, obviously."

"Yeah, I know. And even if we got your new cast waterproofed, you wouldn't be able to bathe yourself, not with one hand and - in your condition." He means _painful burns on your back so you can't stretch and welts on your feet so you can't walk and too-sensitive new skin over half of your body so the water will feel scalding or freezing if it's not just right,_ but Sherlock undoubtedly will understand. He always picks up on subtext like that.

And Sherlock does nod, although he also pushes himself up to a sitting position. "You're offering, I assume?"

". . . I guess I am."

"Go run the water, then, and I'll see how much standing my feet will allow me to do."

John does. The answer, as it turns out, is "not much at all." It's fortunate that the loo is so close to Sherlock's bedroom, because John only barely manages to prevent Sherlock from pitching headfirst into the bathroom door. He doesn't say anything (not out loud, anyway), just braces his shoulder under his stubborn flatmate's arm and half-hauls Sherlock to the tub.

The temperature takes a while to get right - not lukewarm, not exactly, but nothing near properly hot, either. Sherlock perches on the lip of the bathtub and stubbornly insists on stripping off his gown himself. John pretends to keep his focus entirely on the tap.

Getting Sherlock into the tub is almost as difficult as getting him to the bathroom in the first place. There's no dignified way to shift eleven stone of naked flatmate into a full bathtub, especially when the flatmate in question has a brand-new cast on one wrist. John finally strips down to his pants, grips Sherlock tightly around the chest from behind, and steps into the tub. The awkwardness of the situation (Christ, when did pressing his bare chest to Sherlock's naked back become reasonable?) pales when pitted against the likelihood of Sherlock slipping and falling and injuring himself further if he had to maneuver himself one-handed. John lowers them both into the water, making space for Sherlock between his knees.

"Never done this before," Sherlock mutters.

John huffs out a breath. "I have, but never with someone with such bloody long legs. And never while still wearing my pants."

He immediately regrets the words - it's too soon, much too soon for that kind of teasing. Especially with the front of his pants so frighteningly close to Sherlock's arse. John is mildly surprised to realize his discomfort isn't for the reason he would have expected: it's not because Sherlock isn't female. It's not because there's anything sexual in their position at all, other than general proximity. It's merely because Sherlock's not ready, _couldn't possibly_ be ready, to joke about sex. Not after -

"So how do we do this?" Sherlock says, interrupting John's constant internal monologue.

_Right. Bathing._ "Lean forward a bit so I can do your back, then I'll let you do whatever else you can reach."

Sherlock complies, folding himself nearly in half. The position puts the burn marks on his back in much better light, which proves to be extremely helpful. John is as gentle as possible with the flannel, only barely touching Sherlock's skin as the fabric skims over it. Sherlock shudders anyway.

_Sorry - so sorry_ . . . John realizes he's murmuring the apologies in a constant litany as he works. He slows his strokes as the cloth swipes lower, nearer to the angry red marks around Sherlock's arse, but Sherlock holds completely still even when John finally bites the bullet and gently scrubs the entire area.

It gets easier after that. John passes Sherlock the flannel and scrambles out of the tub. He's soaked from the waist down, pants sticking unpleasantly to his skin, but he stays long enough to ensure Sherlock can get a good start on washing his own chest and legs with his good hand.

"Go dry off - I'm fine," Sherlock commands, punctuating with a flick of the flannel.

John does, wrapping a towel around his waist and darting upstairs for a clean pair of pants. And jeans and a t-shirt, while he's there. By the time he gets back to the bathroom, Sherlock is sluicing off the lather with handfuls of water as best he can.

"Your hair still needs work," John says. He ends up retrieving a mug from the kitchen and pouring the lukewarm water over Sherlock's head a cupful at a time, then cracking open Sherlock's expensive bottle of shampoo and carefully massaging it into those overgrown dark curls. The room immediately smells of Sherlock, the Sherlock from before -

_No._ John quickly rinses the residue away and tries very hard to ignore how Sherlock's eyes had drifted closed under the pressure of John's fingers. And how amazingly _sexual _he had looked, while not actually being sexual at all. _We're friends, I'm just being professional, this is medical -_

It's a lie. It's a lie and John knows it. Sherlock probably knows it too, but he's not showing any particular inclination to talk. John empties the tub and does his best to towel Sherlock dry right there, shifting him only as much as is absolutely necessary. Sherlock doesn't protest, doesn't speak. His eyes do stay locked on John's face, but John tries to ignore that too.

_Clothes_. Still a while yet before Sherlock can wear real clothes, but John retrieves one of the clean hospital gowns. Sherlock manages to stand almost all the way up on his own, John drapes the gown over his shoulders, and together they get him back to his bed. Sherlock is asleep five minutes later.


	7. Chapter 7

He frequently dreams about John. It's not intentional, and it's not every time he closes his eyes, but it's often enough he's forced to acknowledge it as a pattern. The dreams are almost always of his basement prison, of fists and knives and humiliation and pain and loneliness, and sometimes he shakes himself awake with shivering.

Sometimes, though, John is there. It's always different, then: sometimes John is chained down beside him, cowering and silent. Those are the worst times. Sometimes the dream is bittersweet, in which John comes and hugs him, curling up against his body in the dark, their tears mingling on the dirt floor between their faces. And sometimes the dream is better. Those are the dreams in which John breaks down the door and stoops to pick up Sherlock on his back. In those dreams, John carries him out into the sunlight, and there is no embarrassment, no pain - all Sherlock's wounds are magically healed. All that's left are the two of them, holding each other tight like lovers, bodies slipping against each other in easy motion, reaffirming their connection, the fact that neither will be alone anymore. John's lips are warm and confident against his own, inviting Sherlock to taste and explore and show with more than words how much John means to him.

It's after one of those dreams that Sherlock awakes. There's only diffuse light coming in the bedroom window, suggesting the pre-dawn hours. He could roll over and check the clock, but that would mean looking away from John. Knowing the time - orienting himself - isn't important enough for that.

John is asleep face-down on the bed next to him, eyes closed and mouth open and snoring slightly. His legs are scissored apart in an awkward sprawl, tangled in the sheets, and his knee is nearly touching Sherlock's thigh. It's not a photogenic position, but it's honest and trusting and so undeniably _John _that Sherlock can barely stand it.

His mind is still reeling with the imagined taste of John's kiss and his cock is more than half hard. It's only a matter of a foot or so for Sherlock to shift forward on the bed and press his lips to John's forehead. _Creased - worried in his sleep? Or stress?_ Sherlock closes his eyes and repeats the gesture, slower, savoring how John's skin feels against his lips-

"Sh'lock?"

He startles and pulls back.

"Mmm." John smiles a sleepy smile and reaches out to spear his fingers through the curls at the nape of Sherlock's neck. "Do that again while I'm awake enough to enjoy it."

Sherlock has doubts about whether John is "awake" in any traditional sense of the word, but his doubts are driven from his head completely by John licking his lips and molding his fingertips against Sherlock's trapezius. And then the distances closes - through John's actions or his own, Sherlock couldn't say - and they're kissing for real. John's lips _are _warm, warm and soft from sleep, and Sherlock discovers himself relaxing into the contact as if it were something they'd been doing for years. He ventures a tiny bit more pressure, a tentative first step, and John responds with a faint moan and a sudden shift in position, rolling their bodies so they're pressed together length to length and John's weight is pressing Sherlock into the mattress.

And something snaps. Suddenly Sherlock is back on the battered wooden table in the old farmhouse, heavy weight of a stranger pinning him down, steel restraining his wrists and ankles, and he is fighting. He can't breathe, can't think for the panic of just needing the stranger _off _of him, needing the man's hands and tongue and cock and cigarette and bastinado _away_ from his body -

"Sherlock! _Sherlock!_"

John's voice only gradually impedes on the scene, until suddenly Sherlock recognizes John's face hovering above him, abject horror scrawled all over it. A sound in the room stops, and Sherlock belatedly realizes it had been his own panicked whine.

John sits back the moment Sherlock stops struggling. He kneels on his side of the bed, eyes wide, hand rubbing nervously at his sternum. His tongue darts out to moisten his lips again, but he seems at a loss for words.

"John." Sherlock's voice sounds more like a croak.

"God, I'm sorry," John whispers. He raises a hand as if to touch Sherlock's shoulder, then pulls it away. "I'm so - I'm so sorry-"

"No, I-" Sherlock forces a deep breath into his lungs, tries to stop trembling. "John."

"I didn't mean to - I don't expect you to-"

"Wait," Sherlock says, still shaky. "Please - turn that way, just for a minute. I need one minute. Please."

John nods and turns, sitting on the very edge of the bed so he's as far away from Sherlock as possible. His head is bowed, his shoulders still twitching. Sherlock props himself up to almost-sitting, takes several deep breaths, and reaches with his good hand to turn on the bedside lamp.

"John."

John doesn't turn around.

"That wasn't you, it was me."

"PTSD isn't something to be ashamed of, Sherlock." John is still hovering right at the edge of the bed, ready to flee. "It's not your fault."

Sherlock huffs out a breath. "Not that," he says. "I know that part isn't my fault. I meant, the - the kiss. I surprised you, and I'm sorry. You weren't fully awake."

John does turn, then, curling his good knee up on the bed. He examines Sherlock for a long moment in the yellow light of the lamp. "You didn't mind kissing me," he says finally.

Sherlock nods. "I had to - to do something. You're a better man than I could ever deserve, John. I woke up from a dream and you were there and I just had to make sure you were real." He closes his eyes against the memories threatening to overwhelm him again. "There were so many times you weren't," he admits quietly.

"Bloody-" John breaks off, swallowing hard. "I can't lose you again," he finally says. "And I hate that I couldn't be real for you every time, kissing away your hurts."

Surely he hadn't heard that right. Sherlock knows he had to have been imagining John wanting to _kiss _him, on purpose, not when caught by surprise half-asleep and in a pitying mood and-

John reaches for Sherlock's uninjured hand, pulls it toward himself, and touches his lips to Sherlock's palm. "I'm going to be there for you now," he says solemnly, eyes locked on Sherlock's. His thumb rubs tiny circles over the flesh where his kiss is now burning into Sherlock's skin. "I'm going to be here for as long as you need me."

Sherlock squeezes his fingers around John's and smiles for all he's worth.


	8. Chapter 8

They fall into a pattern of kisses around the flat. Small, utilitarian kisses, when John gets up to make tea and when Sherlock finally recovers enough to wear t-shirts and sweatpants and spend time on the sofa watching crap telly and yelling at the screen. They almost never actually kiss on the lips, but that's not what it's about. John finds he loves seizing the opportunity to just prove his presence, little brushes against Sherlock's hair or shoulder or forehead.

Sherlock, in turn, wraps his arms around John's waist sometimes when they're in the kitchen and nuzzles a kiss against the nape of his neck. At night, he presses his lips against whatever skin is closest before he turns off the light. When John is sitting on the sofa, Sherlock curls himself up next to him and insinuates his head between John's hand and his lap, like an over-large housecat demanding attention. And John responds, idly spearing his fingers through Sherlock's dark curls and tracing the whorls of his outer ear with one blunt fingertip. Sherlock shivers at that, sometimes, and John can't help but be amazed at how delightfully _responsive _he is. And wonder whether that responsiveness would carry over into other, more intimate activities.

It's clear their new pattern isn't strictly platonic - but it's not really romantic, either. At least, John has a hard time defining it as such. Sherlock isn't yet back to himself - flashes of his old personality still shine through, rapid-fire bursts of deductions flung at the television screen or long rants prompted by something he reads in the morning paper - but in between there are quiet moments which never existed before. Sherlock, lying motionless on the sofa, but without that hum of restrained energy he used to emanate. It's like he's powered off, just blank and empty and waiting for thoughts of something, anything to come help fill him up. John tries to be close at those times, finding an excuse to come sit nearby and maybe offer tea or a sandwich or some tidbit of news from online. There's no way to know for sure where Sherlock goes when he's having one of his blank periods, but he always comes back to himself feeling a bit more clingy than normal. John doesn't mind.

It's unusual, then, for _John _to be the one startled out of a mid-afternoon reverie by the feel of warm lips against his forehead. He turns, belatedly recalling himself to the flat: Sherlock kneeling on the sofa beside him, intense eyes boring into his own.

"John."

Sherlock closes the gap again, this time sealing his mouth over John's own. His uninjured hand raises to capture the line of John's jaw, tilting John's head slightly to give himself a better angle for the kiss. Sherlock is the one kneeling and he's taller, anyway; John lets his head drop back against the top cushions of the sofa as Sherlock bears down on him from above.

Sherlock isn't a fantastic kisser, clearly doesn't have as much experience as John has at it, but he more than makes up for his lack of practice with a keen attention to detail. John knows somewhere in the back of his mind - the only part not currently melting under the onslaught of his flatmate's assault - that Sherlock must be cataloguing John's reactions and filing them away as _John Watson, kissing, particular turn-ons during_.

And God help him, it's working. Sherlock's technique improves rapidly as he accidentally and then purposefully does all the things John loves about a thoroughly good snog: alternating firm and gentle pressure, teasing darts of his tongue against John's own, long fingers tracing individual tributaries through the hair at the nape of his neck. By the time Sherlock pulls away, just a fraction, John is breathing hard and his mind is whirling.

"What-"

"Because I wanted to," Sherlock breathes, answering John's question before he could even finish formulating it. "Because you looked so far away, sitting here alone, and I like it when you're here with me. Because I wanted to see that dazed look in your eyes. And because, as I understand it, it's polite to engage in at least one passionate kiss before taking another man's cock in one's mouth. Which is what I intend to do next."

John blinks. _Christ, even just the_ thought _of those nimble lips around his cock_ -

But something is wrong. This is too fast, too soon. Sherlock's not always keen on normal social conventions, true -

"I'm not saying no," John says, putting his arms between them and holding Sherlock back enough to clear his mind a bit. "I'm just - have you ever done this before?"

Sherlock's gaze sharpens, an edge of annoyance tainting his expression. "Does it matter?"

"No. Yes. I don't know. Just - please, have you?"

"This won't be my first, all right? I promise I can make it good for you."

John shakes his head. "Not what I'm worried about. Sherlock - tell me this isn't some cocked-up way to try to get over something that happened during your kidnapping."

Sherlock reels back, clearly hurt, and John feels like kicking himself. It's the first time he's openly acknowledged the kidnapping in words, first time he's alluded to the fact that there was obviously sexual as well as physical assault. Sherlock doesn't want to talk about it, he knows that, but this doesn't feel like something that ought to be swept under the rug and analyzed later. And as much as Sherlock may want to delete the entire experience from his mind palace, John knows that's not going to happen. Maybe not ever.

"I'm sorry." The apology is automatic, but John absolutely means it. He reaches for Sherlock's waist, tugs, pulls him until Sherlock is sitting crossways on his lap and John can bury his face in the long lines of Sherlock's neck. He lets his hand wander over Sherlock's back, tracing the shoulderblades and the individual knobs of his vertebrae, and waits for the tension to drain from Sherlock's body.

"Can't it be both?" Sherlock says quietly from above him. "I acknowledge that some . . . not good things happened. Things I can't immediately dismiss. But I also want you, want to do things _with _you, with an intensity I have never experienced before. Yes, I want some new, good memories to overlay the others, but I want them to be with _you_. Just you."

John sighs and presses a long, lingering kiss against the hollow just above Sherlock's clavicle. "It's not going to go away just because we have sex, you know," he says.

"I know."

"In that case . . ." John withdraws, shifts Sherlock so there's air between their torsos and he can look up into Sherlock's face. "Go sit in your armchair."

Sherlock's eyebrows lower ominously. "John-"

"Just - do it. Trust me."

Sherlock does.

John allows himself one moment to hesitate, just one, then he leans forward and strips off his shirt in one smooth movement. Sherlock freezes.

"Yours, now. Take it off."

Sherlock is more awkward, on account of the cast still on his wrist, but he manages to drag the t-shirt up over his head and toss it to the ground.

"Now talk."

Sherlock blinks. He doesn't move.

So John reaches down to unbutton his trousers and palm himself through the fabric of his pants. Still more than halfway hard, thanks to that epic snog. He twists his hips and slides backward, until he's lying mostly-reclined on the sofa and Sherlock has an excellent view of his hand as he lightly strokes himself.

"I want to do it like this, the first time," he says quietly, letting Sherlock hear the huskiness creeping into his voice. "I want you to describe exactly what you would be doing, if you were over here on the sofa with me. And we can both get ourselves off imagining it."

Sherlock seems to be taking an unusually long time to speak. "Why?" he finally asks.

"Why do I want to get off with you? Or why the distance?"

Sherlock swallows. "The latter," he says, his eyes glued on John's slowly moving wrist.

"Because I want you to be completely in charge, this time. Because this way, we can be 100% sure I won't accidentally do something to ruin the mood." John eyes the way Sherlock's cock is already tenting the fabric of his sweatpants. "Because this way, you have an excellent vantage point to watch and catalogue all my responses, so you can gather as much data as possible about what turns me on."

Sherlock groans and slumps back against the cushions of his chair. "I want to touch you so badly, do you know that?"

"Next time." John knows he's smirking, but doesn't particularly care. "Right now, I want to know what you intend to do with me. Hypothetically, of course."

"Right." Sherlock clears his throat. "Hypothetically, then - can we assume I'm allowed to start back at that long snog?"

"Start anywhere you want. You crossways in my lap, holding my head steady as you explore the inside of my mouth, that's as good a spot as any."

Sherlock lets out a huff of breath and his hand steals down to provide friction against his clearly interested cock. "Start there, then. I'm kissing you, deep and filthy, and you're loving it."

John can practically taste it. "I am," he admits.

"I slide off between your knees, so I'm kneeling on the floor and I've got you leaning to reach me and my tongue is all over the interior of your mouth. I'm holding your head forward, pulling you down to me, but then I break the kiss and start working my way down the side of your neck. Your pulse is already racing."

On a whim, John runs his fingertips over his own carotid and eyes his watch for several seconds. "Just over a hundred," he announces. "I've been sitting, so that's a good thirty percent increase already."

"Mmmm." Sherlock's hand shifts again, rubbing against himself. "I keep my mouth there just long enough to make you wonder, then I slide my tongue down your chest to run it over your nipple."

"Right, or left?"

"Right. The side away from your bullet wound, away from the interrupted nerve tissue."

John can practically feel it, feel the warmth and the wetness of Sherlock's mouth against his skin. He runs his free hand over his chest until he comes to his right nipple and circles it with his fingertip.

"Yes, that's it." Sherlock's eyes are locked on John's hand. "I trace the tip of my tongue around it, slowly, then abruptly close over it and suck."

John pinches, and the sensation spears directly to his cock.

And Sherlock notices, his hand constricting reflexively over his own. "That's it - roll it now, between your thumb and your forefinger. Feel me grazing it with my teeth, soothing and then rough again. Feel how desperate you're getting for me to keep moving."

Christ, he could. He absolutely could. John moans.

And Sherlock's expression sharpens, zeroing in on that soft sound. "I don't, though - just go to the other side and do the same thing. Teasing, not even glancing at your cock. Not yet."

_"Fuck."_ John repeats the pattern on his left nipple - gentle circle, tight pinch, rolling it and tugging softly. He's aching, and he's barely even touched himself below the waist.

"I eventually replace my mouth with my fingers," Sherlock says in a seductively low rumble. "Twirling and prodding and pinching and soothing again. But my mouth moves lower, licking a firm stripe down your abdominal muscles. Maybe taking a moment to press my tongue into your navel, probing, lighting your nerves endings up all over your body. How does that feel, John?"

"So 'mazing," John mumbles.

"Take off your pants and trousers now," Sherlock says. "I've got my hands busy teasing your nipples and my mouth busy making you moan, so you'll have to do it."

John doesn't hesitate, just lifts his hips and slides off the rest of his clothes. From across the room, Sherlock is doing the same thing, shucking his sweatpants and tossing them over to sit in a heap on top of his discarded shirt. And then they're both naked, flushed, and panting, and Sherlock is eyeing John's cock with definite intent.

"What do you taste like," John?" he murmurs. "Imagine watching me as I bend over you and lick the tip. Just a tiny taste."

John does, imagines the mop of dark curls he'd see if Sherlock leaned over and licked. And - even imaginary - it is easily the hottest thing he's had in his sex life in a very long time. John wraps his fingers around his insistent erection and pumps it, letting his own precome lubricate the slide of skin on skin.

"More, now," Sherlock says quietly, his hand moving up and down on his own cock. "It wouldn't take me long to learn exactly what you like, I'd bet - all lips and suction? Or a tiny hint of teeth? You do like danger - I'm guessing the teeth would be a turn-on."

He's right. He is so fucking right and John doesn't even bother trying to hide the load groan ripped from his throat. There's an answering noise from Sherlock, a sharp pant, and then they're both wanking furiously and when he closes his eyes he can _feel _Sherlock's lips wrapped around him. John throws his head back, staring blankly at the ceiling as he visualizes watching the back of Sherlock's head bobbing up and down around his cock. His mouth would be wet and oh, so tempting, just to thrust into it _again _and _again _and maybe even come right there down his throat -

"That's it, John. Come for me."

And heaven help him, he does. All the sexual tension from day one onward coalesces into one exquisite moment and then John is groaning Sherlock's name and coming, great pulses against his tight hand, against Sherlock's imaginary tongue. From somewhere off to the side, Sherlock grunts as well, a desperate sound, and then the grunt dissolves into a long groan and the tension in the room dissipates into a general aura of lassitude.

John closes his eyes for a moment and just lets himself lie there boneless on the sofa. Sherlock is similarly motionless, crumbled into his own pile of quiet contentment. Eventually John manages to get up, go grab some tissues from the kitchen so he and Sherlock can at least clean up a bit, but he still waits for Sherlock to talk first. Sherlock must know already how he feels - it's kind of fucking obvious, what with the orgasm and all - but John finds himself wildly curious to know what Sherlock thinks.

He doesn't get the chance. Before Sherlock can say anything - before John even gets his trousers properly buttoned - there's a knock at the door. John throws a panicked glance at Sherlock, but Sherlock is once again lounging in his armchair (dressed, thank goodness) and staring intently at the ceiling with his fingers steepled under his chin. Downstairs, there are sounds of Mrs. Hudson answering the front door, some muted conversation, then a knock on 221B.

"John? Sherlock? I know you're still not out and about yet, but there's a case I'd really like your help with."

John glances at Sherlock, who only rolls his eyes and shrugs. "Might as well let him in. Button your trousers first - Lestrade will notice otherwise."

He stuffs the soggy tissue into the sofa cushions, buttons his trousers, and goes to open the door.


	9. Chapter 9

Lestrade barges into the flat with his usual impatience, time always at a premium for him. Enough so that he's subsisted mainly on coffee and stale doughnuts from the Yard's break room for at least twenty-four hours, from what Sherlock can see of his clothing. Busy day, then, which often means a case worth actually bothering about.

John shows him in, directs him to the unoccupied armchair (_not _the sofa, not with what they so recently did in evidence, which Lestrade will of course miss because he won't notice how the cushions are squashed in a distinctive pattern directly under where John's hips were, but it's just as well he not sit near that used tissue) and waits politely. Lestrade seems unsure how to take this break from tradition - usually John offers tea - but he musters quickly.

"This is a strange one," he says without further conversational pleasantries. "We've been trying to process the scene for-"

"-the better part of a day now, yes," Sherlock interrupts. "Skip to the interesting part."

Lestrade clears his throat. "Yes, well. Male caucasian, twenty-three. Name's Alexi Kriukov. Took us a while to ID him with all the damage."

"Which is?" John prompts, when Lestrade pauses unnecessarily.

"Bloody ugly, is what it is," Lestrade says with a slump of his shoulders. "Bloke was gone over thoroughly, and more than once. Fractured wrist, broken ribs, some really serious chemical burns on his back. Shallow cuts on his legs and abdomen, obviously carefully placed to maximize the pain." He swallows awkwardly. "Evidence of sexual assault, too, something forced up in there. Quite a bit of blood. Also-"

"-several raised welts on the soles of his feet," Sherlock finishes for him. "And abrasions on his wrists and ankles, from the steel restraints his captors used."

Lestrade gapes at him.

"He'll have a brother, I believe," Sherlock continues. "Diplomat, most likely, or business magnate. Foreign - the name suggests Russian, but could be any of the former Soviet bloc. The brother is well-regarded in his home country but relatively anonymous here, despite his enormous wealth and the fact that he travels to London frequently."

John gapes at him, too. "How do you know-"

Sherlock levels a stare at him. "An _older _brother, John. A powerful older brother."

He can see John's eyes widen as the facts click into place. Not a genius, John, but he's reliably quicker than most when Sherlock isn't being deliberately difficult to follow.

Lestrade looks back and forth between the two of them, intelligent enough to know when he's missing out on something important but not enough to deduce what it is. "Any thoughts?" he asks after several tense seconds of silence.

_Several_. The thoughts won't stop, won't slow enough to let Sherlock catch and analyze them one at a time. _Mycroft is a bloody bastard and he used me as a pawn and bluffed and lost, they weren't lying, he left me there and didn't do a fucking thing to get me back, can't bloody stand to show emotion, but this, this tips his hand, he's made it personal, finding the brother in London was a cruel touch, make the brother into a pawn as well, "do to me and I'll do to you," except he didn't, did he, more like "touch my property and I'll ruin yours," made it all about him and his fucking cold war with the older brother, maybe their whole government, hard to tell, worked, though, because now they know Mycroft won't negotiate for me, now they'll think he has no pressure points at all, bloody Iceman, no humanity left in him, whereas I've just had mine stolen from me by force-_

"Sorry, mate." John's voice winds through whirlwind of Sherlock's thoughts and provides him a mental branch to grab onto. "Sherlock would normally jump at that kind of thing, but he's not really back to himself yet. He was gone longer than he's been back, still."

_Yes, back, not in that bloody hellhole anymore, home now, home with John-_

Lestrade deflates a bit. "Yeah, I get it. I figured it was still a bit too soon, but I had to give it a shot. Haven't seen either of you in weeks. And I highly doubt this is going to be one of the ones we quietly solve on our own. Too many marks of it being professional - everything except the brutality, really. That's unusual."

"Drop it," Sherlock announces without looking at either of them.

"You don't think-"

"You won't have enough evidence to convict," he continues, over Lestrade's argument. "No fingerprints at the scene, despite all the blood, right?"

Lestrade nods warily.

"And when you look into the paper trail on the property where he was found, you're going to run into miles of red tape and not much else. A shell of a shell of a shell of a shell based in the Caymans or the like. It's not your scene, Lestrade, for all you've had your team tramping around over it."

"What do I do, then?"

Sherlock shrugs, the carefully-casual one-shoulder shrug he uses to indicate he both is bored and doesn't care whether anyone knows it. It usually drives John spare. "Write up your notes, put them in a neat little case file, and dump it in the unsolved bins. You're not going to get an answer on this one."

"Why not?" Lestrade asks, a puzzled frown planted firmly on his face. "And how do you know all of this, anyway?"

John snorts. "You're seriously still expecting a straight answer to that, after all this time?"

And Lestrade backs down. "You're right, mate. Kind of a silly question by now, innit?" He sighs. "Fine, I'll let this one settle. Not that I'll ignore evidence," he adds sternly, "but I'll not waste our time on something that's likely to be unsolvable. Lord knows we're paying out enough overtime already."

"Speaking of which, Detective Inspector, you really ought to try some real food and sleep." Sherlock twists in his armchair to actually look at him for the first time since he walked into the room. "Coffee and doughnuts may seem like an adequate breakfast, but they're completely insufficient for lunch and dinner too." He smirks - John and Lestrade obviously are both immediately thinking variations on _who is this berk to talk?_ - but John also catches the subtle flick of his eyes toward the Lestrade and moves into position to usher Lestrade out the door.

"Sorry we couldn't help, Greg," John says as he stands and offers a hand. Pleasant, informal handshake at the end of a social interaction. "Maybe once Sherlock is recovered a bit more, but he still mostly needs his rest."

"I understand," Lestrade says politely. He shakes John's hand, but doesn't try to force any similar gesture of social goodwill from Sherlock. "Text me when he's on the go again, alright?"

"Will do."

"Ta." And then he's gone.

John closes the door behind him and waits until they both hear the footsteps recede down the stairs and the front door squeak closed. Only then does he turn and level a stare at Sherlock, arms akimbo, legs and shoulders locked in the military stance he unconsciously assumes when he prepares for a verbal fight.

"There's more you're going to have to tell me," he announces. "Right the fuck now."


	10. Chapter 10

NOTE: This was a tough one for me to write. Trigger warnings for torture, abuse, and rape. This chapter is about consent and reclaiming agency, not fetishizing any of this, but I recognize this chapter will be a pretty heavy one to read if those are hotspots for you.

* * *

"I don't want to." Sherlock meets John's resolve with a peeved look. If it had been a fearful one - if Sherlock had looked one bit like further discussion would be a trigger for him - John would have backed off and saved the conversation for later. It isn't, though. John knows Sherlock well enough to identify the nuances of his sulks, and this one is pure petulance.

"Too fucking bad." John forces his arms down to his sides - a bit less threatening that way - and keeps up his end of the staring contest until Sherlock harumphs and rolls in the armchair to curl himself into a ball facing the opposite wall. Which means Sherlock isn't happy, but he's willing to at least listen.

"Do you want to start with how you knew about the case, or with what the fuck just happened back there between us?" John presses.

A shrug of Sherlock's shoulders and an indistinct mumble.

And John wavers a bit. "Look," he says, gentling his tone. "It sucks. What happened to you was fucking horrible and nobody should go through that, ever. If you want . . . something . . . between us, though, you're going to have to talk to me. Because if you don't, sooner or later I'm going to hurt you. I won't mean to, and I'll feel fucking horrible about it, and you won't want to tell me, and it will cause all sorts of problems. This is one of those people-emotion-relationship things and you're just going to have to fucking trust me that it's important to talk now."

"Your vocabulary of curses deteriorates when you're stressed," Sherlock says without moving. "You've said the word 'fuck' five times since Lestrade left."

"You're deflecting."

"You've spent too much time with your therapist."

_"Sherlock,"_ John groans. "Just talk to me."

_"Fine."_ Sherlock spits the word as he unfolds from his Sherlock-sized pretzel of knees and feet and elbows into a more humanlike position. "What do you want me to confess, John? That I've wanted to suck you off for ages now? That I took less than forty-eight hours to regret having put you off at Angelo's the first night we met? Not that it would have mattered, since you've never missed an opportunity to point out that you're _not gay_, but by then it was too late and I realized having you as a flatmate was a good deal better than nothing at all. And now-" He breaks off and swallows sharply.

John raises an encouraging eyebrow, silently willing Sherlock to continue.

"Now I'm ruined," Sherlock says simply, the emotion abruptly gone from his voice. "Now some faceless adversary of Mycroft's has taken my body and used it all up and I'm broken. Even if you were gay, you'd deserve better than that. Better than leftovers."

"Christ." John _aches _with the need to wrap Sherlock in a tight hug, as if he were a child, but he knows Sherlock won't welcome that right now. Won't welcome pity, or comfort, or anything except confirmation of the lie, which John wholeheartedly refuses to give.

Sherlock hugs his own arms to his chest, turning away, toward the hallway and the safety of his bedroom. "Thank you for humoring me, at least," he says quietly.

"I wasn't."

Sherlock pauses, but doesn't turn around. "But you're not gay."

_I was wrong._ "And you're not broken," John counters.

Sherlock snorts and retreats to his room.

John refuses to let it end there, though - he follows, close enough Sherlock can't slam the door in his face. And Sherlock doesn't try, just flops on his bed face-down and closes his eyes, retreating from the conversation once again. The movement causes the lower hem of his t-shirt to ride up, baring a stripe of skin over the small of his back. John can't resist.

He sits on the edge of the mattress and drops his hand to rest lightly on that pale patch of exposed skin. He's tended to Sherlock's back daily as the burns healed, but now they're nearly gone and it's less like doctoring and more like actually _touching_. He nudges a bit higher, dragging the t-shirt upward until most of Sherlock's back is bare.

"You're not used up," he says quietly. "All of you - everything you keep trying to tell me is just transport - you're all still here. And your body is still yours to use or give away. The physical scars are almost healed, but the emotional injuries will stay there until you deal with them." He splays his palm and rubs tiny circles into Sherlock's lower back, still a bit pink and shiny with new-growing skin but otherwise back to its normal feel. Or what John imagines it would have felt like, if they had shared this level of intimacy before Sherlock's kidnapping.

"I don't know how," Sherlock admits, one level above a whisper.

"Talking helps." John keeps up the soothing movement, and Sherlock's muscles start to relax under his fingers. "This patch of skin, right here - what did they do?"

A long pause, in which he thinks Sherlock isn't going to answer. Then: "Burns."

John doesn't answer, lets the silence speak for him.

And Sherlock only pauses a moment before seemingly coming to a decision. "Three men," he mumbles into the mattress. "Two for muscle, and one shorter one who was obviously the leader. The two sidekicks liked stubbing their cigarettes out on my back, but that was mostly incidental. The leader was more thorough. Twice he used something heated and metal - I couldn't see what - and four other times he literally painted on an acid solution with a paintbrush. Four different solutions, presumably to test the effects."

The cigarette burns were obvious the first day, during John's initial inspection, and the rest tally up with the severity of the burns. The paintbrush even explains the unusually even distribution. John stills his hand. "Still _your _body, Sherlock. Not broken." It takes a bit more courage to nudge into the next question: "May I kiss you here?" He taps Sherlock's lower spine gently.

Sherlock twists, curling enough John can see how his eyebrows are drawn down and his forehead furrowed in confusion. "Why?" he whispers.

"Because it's yours. Your choice to give permission now if you want to. And because I would like to cover every inch of you with kisses." _Prove to you you're not unlovable._

Sherlock licks his lips, then nods slightly.

John has to fold himself at an awkward angle to remain sitting on the bed while kissing Sherlock's back, but he manages. The t-shirt gets rucked up higher, cresting along the top of Sherlock's shoulderblades, but it leaves plenty of space for John to kiss and lick and lave with his tongue, until he's covered every burn mark and every scar and every shiny pink gleam of new skin. Sherlock lies quietly, barely even breathing. John eventually draws back and takes Sherlock's good wrist into his own cupped hands, turns it over and traces the uneven patch.

"Tell me about this."

Sherlock's eyes lock onto where their hands are nearly joined. "You saw the chains," he says quietly.

"Tell me anyway."

He nods, a minuscule movement, but it means he _gets it_ and John has to work hard to force his own body to stay still. "Steel shackles," Sherlock says in a small voice. "They kept my feet chained together with only sixteen inches of chain, enough to hobble me if I were to attempt to escape but still long enough they could force me to walk up the stairs on my own to-" He takes a shaky breath. "-to The Room."

John can hear the capitals in Sherlock's voice. "Your wrists, too?"

Sherlock nods. "The bodyguards always dragged me there and back by the chain between my wrists. And you saw the bolt in the floor in the basement they locked the chain onto in between."

John runs his thumbs up and down over the sensitive skin covering Sherlock's tendons. No longer bruised, no longer showing any outward sign (at least in the unbroken wrist) of damage, other than a slight texture difference, invisible to the naked eye. "May I kiss you there?"

Sherlock closes his eyes. "If - if you want to."

John brings the wrist up to his lips and presses a tiny kiss over Sherlock's pulse. He lips his way around the circumference, nothing wet or erotic, just a quiet claiming. He does the same with the other wrist, even though it's in a cast and Sherlock can't feel it. And then he slides down the bed on his stomach so he can do the same to Sherlock's ankles.

Sherlock holds very still while John works, seeming to appreciate the seriousness of the gesture. His toes twitch when John reaches the hollows on either side of his Achilles tendon, but he watches silently until John sits back up again.

"Next?" John asks simply.

Sherlock swallows, then slowly flexes and points one foot.

"Tell me."

"Bastinado. I . . . started out trying to deduce what I could about the stick, based on the sound and the flex, but I was unable to concentrate."

"May I kiss there?"

A silent nod.

There should have been something more awkward about literally kissing Sherlock's feet, but there really wasn't. The marks on Sherlock's soles were the first visible signs of abuse to disappear - not surprising, given the method. The ability of the feet to heal quickly - as well as their unique trait of not habituating to pain, making each hit just as excruciating as the last because the nerves don't go numb - made bastinado practically a standard form of torture for thousands of years. Also a favorite of the Taliban, as too many found out in Afghanistan. John uses his tongue a bit more, this time, teasing at Sherlock's sensitive skin until Sherlock can't hold still, then switching to the other foot to cover every inch of that sole as well.

Finally he sits back on his heels and raises an eyebrow. Sherlock is curled onto his side, watching him, his face faintly flushed.

"Ah." Sherlock's expression takes a moment to come back into focus. "They . . . sometimes pulled me by the hair . . ."

"May I?" John asks.

Sherlock nods, eyes wide.

And John walks around to the head of the bed, settles himself against the headboard, then maneuvers Sherlock until he's lying flat on his back with his head in John's lap. John cards his fingers through those dark curls, massaging his fingertips into Sherlock's scalp, and Sherlock lets out a groan.

"Storing better memories?"

Sherlock closes his eyes and mumbles something unintelligible. John runs his hands over every strand of Sherlock's hair, digging his blunt fingernails into Sherlock's scalp to massage the tension out, and Sherlock eventually goes boneless. John finishes with a quiet nuzzle to the top of Sherlock's head, breathing in the delicate smell of his expensive shampoo.

"Tell me about the marks on your chest," John says, shifting again to kneel at Sherlock's side.

Sherlock's eyes flutter open, large and unfocused. "Do I have to?" he asks with a hint of hesitation.

"Of course not." John keeps his face open, willing Sherlock to see the truth he knows is written there. "This is about what you choose to allow me, Sherlock. If you don't want me to touch you there, I won't."

Sherlock dips his head slightly and licks his lips. His gaze skitters off to one side, alighting on one insignificant thing and then another inside the bedroom he's already memorized ages ago.

"Want me to stop?" John asks quietly.

"No." The response is immediate. Sherlock's good hand drifts up to rub his sternum absently. "I just . . ."

John waits.

"I don't know what it was," Sherlock admits in a breathless rush. "Damn fine consulting detective I am - it was right under my nose, and I was too out of it to deduce bloody well anything at all. The only reason I know it was always the same three men was because I never actually saw anyone else. The moment they got me into The Room, I just - blanked out. Almost every time, after the first few days."

"Hey." John leans down to press a chaste kiss on Sherlock's lips, then draws back to give Sherlock his space. "This was _not your fault_. And I'm going to continue saying that until you believe it."

Sherlock blinks twice. "They only blindfolded me when the leader was there. The rest - I should have seen it. Deduced it. It was my fault, John."

"Close your eyes?"

Sherlock frowns, but complies, and John presses a feather-light kiss to each eyelid.

_"Not. Your. Fault."_

Sherlock makes a soft little humming noise in the back of his throat, which makes John's heart swell. When he opens his eyes again, they're a bit clearer, a bit more like his usual self. "You can kiss the cuts anyway," he whispers.

And John does. He tugs Sherlock's t-shirt upward again, until it's bunched up near his chin, then he lowers his entire torso so he can kiss and lick and nibble every single one of those mystery scars. Most are down to thin pink lines; the ones which got infected are healing more slowly but are still greatly improved from before. He lingers a bit longer on the one which nearly slices across Sherlock's right nipple, breathing on the skin until Sherlock is squirming, then licking the cut and the edge of the areola together until Sherlock is murmuring incoherently above him.

"Please," Sherlock breathes.

So John closes in, centers on that little bud and concentrates his attentions there with careful little jabs and swirls and a long, slow rasp of his tongue over the tip which makes Sherlock arch off the bed. He reluctantly releases it to work his way down Sherlock's abdomen, paying homage to every rib and every muscle in turn. A little push of his tongue into Sherlock's navel leaves Sherlock gasping again.

"Shall I keep going?" John asks, thumbs already insinuating under the waistband of Sherlock's sweatpants.

A rustle of the pillow from further up the bed - Sherlock nodding. John sits up just long enough to ease the sweatpants down Sherlock's long legs and off into a pile on the floor somewhere, then scoots down to press his lips to a particularly vicious-looking cut on the inside of Sherlock's left leg just above the knee.

There's something obscene about this, about mouthing and tonguing Sherlock's nearly-naked form while he himself is still completely dressed and only a little hard, but seeing the full-body flush on Sherlock's skin is worth it. This is sex but not sexual, comforting but not comfortable. It's the only way John has in the moment to show Sherlock how much he truly is loved, and John is determined to do his best despite his inexperience.

He works his way higher. The cuts reveal a pattern, here - a quick line of perpendicular slashes high on the inside of Sherlock's thighs, both sides, looking rather like they were done with a boxcutter or a razorblade. The red marks stand out against the thin skin and John knows they probably hurt like hell for days afterward. He opens his mouth wide, covering as many of the marks as he can at once, hiding them from view under the weight of his own lips and skin and jaw.

"John . . ." Sherlock is squirming in earnest now, moaning and- _oh._ Very, very erect. John sits back and ghosts a feather-light touch, a millimeter away from actually brushing Sherlock's skin, all the way up from Sherlock's thigh to his bollocks and up the underside of his shaft.

"May I kiss you here?" His voice is lower, rougher than usual, but neither of them pretend otherwise. Sherlock bits his lip and nods frantically, his eyes wide.

_I've never done this before_. John quashes the instinctive rebellion in his mind - this is so far outside his previous experience he never considered the possibility it might ever _be _in his experience someday - but Sherlock's erection is a lodestone drawing his mouth down until he tastes the warm skin under his lips and then they're both moaning. John doesn't ask what Sherlock's captors did - there had been cuts here, too, but he knows it and Sherlock knows it and asking would be too much, right now, so he just presses tiny kisses up and down Sherlock's cock until he reaches the tip again and can't prevent himself from tonguing the little slit and sliding his mouth down, just a bit.

Sherlock gasps and bucks. The movement slides him further into John's mouth, catching both of them by surprise, but John continues the motion until he's impaled by Sherlock as far as he can go, the head of Sherlock's cock nudging the back of his throat and it's amazing, so incredibly amazing. Sherlock tastes like desire, warm and languid, with a salty hint of precome. The taste is unique to just him, just Sherlock, nowhere else in the world could possibly have that exact combination of chemicals and flavors and _oh_, it's magnificent. John explores for long minutes, cataloguing in a Sherlockian fashion which little movements make his flatmate twitch and moan and whimper and pant.

"John - I'm going to -"

John draws back, one last long pull as he does so. "Sherlock, there's one more. One more thing to tell me."

Sherlock's pupils are immense, nearly swallowing the irises around him. He stares at John, uncomprehending, then blinks and slowly rolls over onto his stomach. The contact of his damp cock against the sheet rips a groan out of his throat.

"Tell me, please," John whispers.

Sherlock digs his forehead into the pillow. "He . . . he raped me," he says, surprisingly distinct despite the muffling of the fabric over his face.

"It's good to define it. _It's not your fault._" John lays a soothing hand on Sherlock's back, over the tensed muscles.

Sherlock appears to deliberately relax, muscle group by muscle group, testament to his determination to see this through. "I never saw," he says quietly. "Blindfold. But I felt - heard him unzip, felt him push himself into me. He was laughing."

"I'm so sorry." It's inadequate, dreadfully inadequate, but it's all John can say.

"Please," Sherlock says. "I want . . ."

"May I kiss you there?" It's not something John ever thought he'd ask anyone - man or woman - but it's not awkward, it's really not, it's just Sherlock nodding into his pillow and then it's a question of logistics. John spreads Sherlock's legs apart, grabs the extra pillow - his own, now - to stuff under his hips, then runs his palms gently over Sherlock's arse. He starts with a kiss at the base of Sherlock's spine, soft and slow, then works downward in tiny increments. Sherlock says completely silent except for his quick, loud breathing, nearly panting. By the time John reaches the slightly darker skin, feels the texture change below his lips, Sherlock is panting in earnest. John takes it slow, not pushing, just teasing, and keeps going down all the way to Sherlock's perineum before working his way back up and settling in to focus.

_"John." _Sherlock's voice is strangled.

"Shall I stop?"

_"NO."_

John allows himself a tiny grin, one he's sure Sherlock can probably feel. Sherlock's hips are moving, rutting his erection into the pillow under him, but John follows the motions easily and keeps his tongue fluttering right there, right where it's making Sherlock writhe the most. The panting turns to gasps, then half-enunciated pleas.

"Touch yourself," John says, drawing back just enough to be heard. "Wrap your hand around your cock and come. _Your _body, Sherlock. Nobody can take that away from you."

Sherlock complies almost instantly. His hand snakes under his hips, the muscles in his forearm tense as he adjusts his grip, then John delivers a long, slow lick and Sherlock comes with a shuddering groan which sounds like it started in his toes and echoed throughout his entire body. Sherlock quivers for a long moment, every line of his body tense, then collapses flat on the mattress, hips still propped up on John's pillow. John levers himself back up, presses a close-mouthed kiss to the small of Sherlock's back, then lets himself collapse next to his flatmate.

Sherlock immediately turns to curl around him, limpet-like and warm. John is again struck by the incongruity of their positions - Sherlock, post-orgasmic and naked but for the t-shirt rucked up high on his chest, and himself, hard but not urgent, and still fully dressed except for his bare feet. He skewers his fingers through Sherlock's curls and holds the detective's head to his chest, reveling in the warmth and closeness and the _relief _of finally having the details out between them. Not gone, probably never gone, but at least no longer locked in Sherlock's head.

It takes several minutes for it to register that Sherlock is crying. Silently, except for his fractured breathing, but crying nonetheless. John's throat tightens. He wraps his other arm around Sherlock's torso, hauling him closer, and holds him until they both fall asleep.


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock awakens, for the first time in his life, to the feeling of warm arms wrapped around him. Usually he snaps awake, his brain instantly online, but somehow the sensation of John snuggled so intimately against his own body throws everything off-kilter. It takes several minutes before he feels ready to both speak and think simultaneously.

"John?"

John mumbles, his arm tightening over Sherlock's ribcage for a long moment before going slack again. "Mmm."

"John," Sherlock repeats.

John sucks in a sudden breath, obviously just now taking in their relative positions. He pulls away and drags himself up to prop himself up on one elbow. "Oh." His smile is a bit bashful. "Hey. You look adorable when your hair is all rumpled like that in the mornings, did you know that?"

He doesn't look angry. He doesn't even look embarrassed. Sherlock lets his eyes dart over as much of John's body as he can make out underneath the sheet. Still fully dressed, neck a bit sore - but that's obvious, Sherlock fell asleep with John's pillow still under his hips and he had just ejaculated into it, anyway, John made do with propping his head on his arm and sleeping on his side. Eyes a bit over-bright - anticipating the need for compassion, then. Possibly pity. An uncomfortable knot forms in Sherlock's stomach.

"That wasn't what I planned," Sherlock says.

John smiles, the cat with the proverbial cream. "I know," he replies. "You like having everything all planned out. It was nice, though, wasn't it?"

_Doesn't he understand? _Sherlock huffs in frustration, not caring whether John reads it off him or not. "I was going to give you a blow job," he explains with restrained patience. "It was supposed to be a thank-you."

John shrugs. "There's no rush." He reaches to brush one palm over Sherlock's cheek, fingers trailing over his cheekbone and palm cupping his jaw. "We can do whatever you want, as many times as you need for you to start believing me."

"That's not - you're not -" Sherlock is rarely at a loss for words, and it throw him uncomfortably off-balance. "You're not gay," he finally blurts out.

"Ah." John withdraws his hand, opts instead to lace his fingers behind his head and lie back flat on the mattress and stare blankly at the ceiling. "Is that what's bothering you?"

Sherlock glares, the dark glare that usually has strangers avoiding him and starts Lestrade muttering, but John regularly throws off with little more than a shrug. Not even that, this time, just a hint of an eyeroll and a tiny sigh.

"I'm not. Wasn't," John corrects. His gaze darts back to Sherlock's face, lingers on his lips. "You probably deduced correctly that when we first met, I wouldn't have even considered anything like this. That was before I got to know you, though."

Sherlock's mouth feels dry. "What is 'this?'"

"What do you want it to be?" John's lips twitch upward, a tiny hint of a smile nobody else would have recognized, but a moment later he sobers and turns his head to focus directly on Sherlock once again. "This is different, Sherlock, and I meant what I said. There's no rush. This can be whatever you need it to be, and I will be happy with it. I promise."

_How? _The data is all there, it must be, but it doesn't add up. John, who was never shy about his interest in opposite-sex relationships in the past. Who went out with an assortment of women on a fairly regular basis and often came home showing signs of having participated in at least some form of physical intimacy with them, usually a smudge of lipstick somewhere on his skin, sometimes just a telling flush and a beeline for his bedroom. John can't be shy, then, not about his own body or about his physical, biological drive. And yet.

"It can't just be about me," Sherlock says aloud. He may not be good at "people-emotion-relationship things" (as John so eloquently put it), but he does know they usually seem to indicate some sort of reciprocation. This is not reciprocal. This is John babying him, _pitying _him. Consenting to touch his body only because he wants Sherlock to be magically healed. _Bollocks to that._

"It's not." John props himself back up on that elbow, eyebrows knitted together in confused concern. "You've been through a lot. I'm acknowledging that. There's probably always going to be some residual emotion about what your kidnappers did to you-"

"Fuck you." Sherlock rolls out of bed and stalks to the dresser, yanks out a clean pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. John's - it was borrowed from John for the duration of his recovery. He throws it on the floor and digs out another, untainted one. Behind his back, there are noises of John sitting up, mouth probably hanging open in shock, but Sherlock isn't interested.

"Sherlock, I don't understand-"

"Fuck that too." Sherlock whirls on him, finger raised in accusation, a fucking perfect caricature of useless anger. He knows it, doesn't care. "Fuck you, and your understanding, and your pity. I'm not a broken bone you can mend, John. I'm not a lost puppy and I'm not a fucking charity project. Don't you fucking try that with me."

John's eyes are liquid, hurt, but Sherlock can't stop to process that. If he stops, he may crumple into a fragile pile of empty husk right there on the floor. He glares instead, daring John with his eyes to interfere, and storms out of the room. The bathroom door slams with a satisfying _bang_ and Sherlock leans against it for a long while before his legs give out and he sits on the floor, heart leaking out onto the tile around him.

The flat is silent for a minute, two, then John's bare feet thump down onto the floor. The footsteps pause outside the bathroom door, hesitate, then continue on upstairs.

Sherlock closes his eyes and just tries to breathe.


	12. Chapter 12

John considers hiding in his room and sulking for a while, just on principle, but he ends up only staying upstairs long enough to change his clothes and grab a book. Sherlock is a champion sulker, prone to long bouts of moodily staring into the distance and snapping at John for breathing too loudly, but John's sulking skills are mediocre at best. There's no satisfaction in it. Much better to just make a cup of tea and read for a while, letting everything work itself out in the background.

The tea helps. The ritual of it, filling the kettle and plugging it in and waiting for the electric _click _as it boils. Pulling down one mug, then (with a glance at the bathroom door, still shut and - presumably - locked), two. Steeping the tea, setting the timer, pulling the milk out of the fridge.

That last step is odd, uncomfortable - when John opens the refrigerator, he sees the milk and a half-carton of eggs and even though the usual assortment of anonymous jars covers the door, the rest of the shelves are almost empty. Mrs. Hudson had offered to clean out Sherlock's "experiments" a few weeks after his disappearance, unwilling to stand the smell anymore, and John had accepted. (After serious deliberation, because as much as he felt obligated to hold onto something-_anything_ of Sherlock's, as much as it felt like throwing things out meant throwing out all hope of Sherlock coming back, there is only so much leeway one can be expected to make for decomposing livers in the vegetable crisper and poorly-labeled cups of human blood with _things _submerged in them taking up the entirety of the middle shelf.) There's something entirely _not right_ about the refrigerator being so empty, so ordinary, and John has to fight back a lump in his throat.

The timer beeps. John mechanically finishes making the tea. He puts two spoonfuls of sugar in Sherlock's, then two in his own, carefully not thinking about what his sudden change in taste might mean. He sets the mugs on the counter, tidies up the milk and the kettle and the tins and the stirring spoon, then carefully carries both mugs to the hallway outside the loo and lowers himself to a cross-legged sit outside the door.

"Made you tea."

No response from Sherlock.

"If you open the door a crack, I can pass it to you and you won't have to look at me. I promise I won't barge in."

A noise, then, a tiny baritone rumble, and then the sound of the lock disengaging. John sets his own tea down, opens the door just wide enough to fit the other mug through, and slides it over the tile. The door closes again, then a muffled thump as Sherlock leans against it and (presumably) picks up his tea.

Several minutes of uncomfortable silence.

"I'm not doing this out of charity," John says to the door once he has finished the last of what was in his mug. Overly sweet, of course, but for once the sugar is not unwelcome. "If you need space, I'll give it, but I would really like for you to talk to me. I don't understand what I did wrong here - I thought you would be happy I'm apparently not as heterosexual as I always assumed."

More silence.

John sighs. "Can you sulk somewhere else then, at least? This tea's going to kick in in about ten minutes or so and you're hogging the loo."

Finally, a snort from Sherlock.

"Look, I'm sorry." John leans back against the wall and lets his gaze trace blankly over the wood grain of the door. "Obviously I hit something that's a PTSD trigger for you, and I don't want to do that again. But I can't help you if you don't tell me what it was."

The door swings open suddenly. Sherlock is glowering on the other side, kneeling on the tile with his feet tucked under him and his spine perfectly straight. Radiating anger.

_"Don't fucking pity me," _he snaps. "The moment I do something that doesn't go along with your little plan, you call it PTSD and try to pity it away. _You don't get it. _You never will."

"So explain." John is paradoxically more comfortable with this Sherlock - sparring, he can do. Sherlock sniping and growling and complaining and sulking is normal; Sherlock silent is not. "Use small words if you have to, but tell me why exactly me _caring about you_ is such a fucking tragedy."

"Caring." Sherlock sneers. "You don't _care_. You pity me. You want to sweep in and heal my boo-boos and kiss everything better and bloody well done, you, you've patched me up and set me back on my feet. You want to feel like you're helping, even though at the same time you want to prod at my scars, gawk at how broken I am and then pat yourself on the back for fitting all the pieces of Sherlock Holmes back together again all nice and army-neat and orderly. 'Oh, yes, Sherlock, I'm kind of gay now. You can tell me how you'd suck me off but _don't fucking touch me_ because that would be too much, that would show you I'm really just in this for that pat on the back. Now go and _bare your fucking soul_ and tell me all about the mean men who abused and raped you, but don't think I'm even going to fucking unbutton my shirt for this. Let me drain you empty, mind and body, but I don't want you getting your sullied hands on my own cock because that would be too personal and I don't swing like that.' It's _pity_, John, pure and simple, and I don't want it."

"Bullshit." John crosses his arms over his chest and levels an even glare at his flatmate. "You got it wrong; deduce again."

Sherlock growls, a throwaway sound torn from deep in his throat. "I'm not wrong. I finally get up the courage to approach you - to offer you the kind of sexual relationship I think you're finally ready to accept - and you throw it in my face. You condescend to masturbate with me in the room, but I can't touch you. You'll touch me as long as I tell you all about how broken and useless I am, but I still can't touch you. I'm just an adrenaline hit to you - proof of your skill in patching up my body. And now you want the ego-stroke of patching up my heart, too. But you can't, not when you're the reason I'm angry."

"Bloody-" John breaks off, takes a breath, starts again. "You're not angry, Sherlock, you're embarrassed and you're lashing out and yes, I bloody well can tell the difference. You're also so damn wedded to the belief that I'm lying to you, you can't _see_. Why is it so hard to understand that I could want to help _and _I could want more? It seems to me that helping ought to be the _least _- the very fucking _least _- of the things I want to do to you. With you." He swallows. "Under you."

Sherlock's expression has taken on some new quality John's never seen there before. There's still embarrassment and frustration and yes, a hint of anger, but underneath that there's a vulnerability he almost never shows to anyone. The combination knocks John off his soapbox, has him glancing down at where his fingers are twisting tight in his lap.

"I do want to get you better, that much is true," he admits. "I've been blaming myself for two months now about that stupid argument we had, about blowing up at you and making you leave. And I spent the whole time you were gone absolutely _frantic _because I had no right to be this worried for you, but I was anyway. You have no idea how many times I came within a hairsbreadth of actually punching your brother. And when we finally found you . . ." He exhales and closes his eyes. "It's not pity, Sherlock. I promise. I'm _sad _- of course I am - and I'm angry as fuck that someone would hurt you like that. But I'm also a bit jealous, because I want you all to myself and it makes me a terrible person to be feeling that after all you've gone through. You can't help what happened, and _you're not broken,_ and only a complete tosser would be jealous of your kidnappers for getting you to themselves, if only for a little while. What they did was - fuck, there aren't even words for what they did. But the base, animalistic part of me is mad at them for taking something I feel is _mine_. And I never asked you, we never . . . you're not a bone for me to fight over, Sherlock. I have no right to be possessive of you like that, especially since we aren't in a relationship." He huffs out a breath. "_Weren't_ in a relationship. I don't know what the fuck it is now."

Silence. He looks up, finally opening his eyes, to see Sherlock staring at him.

"The thing about not letting you touch me, though," John says awkwardly. "That was . . . um. I'm sorry you got that impression. You can. If you want."

Sherlock continues to stare.

"I mean, let me use the loo first, but then, yeah." John looks back down at his hands. "I'd - I'd like that. If you want to."


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock's body moves without his conscious permission - one minute he's kneeling on the floor just inside the doorway to the bathroom, the next minute he's staring dazedly at his own bed from somewhere in the vicinity of his dresser. John's inside the loo, pissing away both the tea and the accumulated nocturnal contents of his bladder, and somehow the splashing of urine into the bowl grounds Sherlock back into himself.

_He said it's not pity._ Sherlock wants so desperately to believe him, wants to re-frame the notion of their relationship to center on John caring for him and loving him and not John-the-doctor or John-_I'm-not-gay-we're-just-flatmates-no-really_. He certainly pissed like a normal person, woke up with morning breath more often than not, grumbled about going to work (or used to, when he still had a job) and had verbal arguments with chip-and-pin machines and occasionally the people on the telly. He got angry and exasperated and tired and prickly, sometimes all at once and often all directed at Sherlock. He wasn't setting himself up to be a guardian angel, he was just . . . _John_.

Sherlock is still standing awkwardly in his own bedroom when John is done in the loo (washes his hands for the full thirty seconds, medical habit, does it every time he goes in the bathroom to so much as scratch himself, no reason to believe he's stalling) and comes back out into the hallway. He blinks once, then stretches up to press a single kiss on Sherlock's lips and brushes past him to flop heavily onto the bed.

"Your move," he says over his shoulder. Casual tone, as if he were commenting on the color of Sherlock's shirt or the likelihood of rain. Not turned on, then, but going along with it for Sherlock's sake.

Sherlock fixes his gaze on the floorboards, suddenly nervous. "You don't have to, you know." It hurts to say it, hurts to acknowledge, but he owes John at least this much. "I mean, you can't help it if you're not gay, and I don't expect you to pretend just for me." He claps his mouth shut, not at all sure he wants to hear John's relieved sigh-

"You're an idiot, you know that?" John rolls over onto his back, shucks his t-shirt and pajama pants, and props himself up on his elbows so he can look Sherlock full in the face. "You do all that hocus-pocus deducing whatnot, and you don't _observe _things. Like the fact that I really, truly do want this." He tilts his pelvis upward, an offering and sacrifice all in one. He's not fully hard, but not entirely flaccid either. "Now I have an empty bladder and I've had my morning tea and I can focus all my attention on _you_. What exactly do you want to do to me? Because I'm willing."

"But you're not-"

"Fuck it all to hell, Sherlock," John snaps, exasperated. "Would it help if I said it? Fine. _I'm gay now. _At least, I'm having some extremely gay fantasies involving gagging you with my cock so you'll stop dithering over how _not gay _I am." He closes his mouth abruptly, catching his lip between his teeth so hard it makes him wince. "Shit," he says in a much quieter voice. "Sorry, didn't mean to-"

"Don't apologize." Sherlock forces himself to cross the remaining floorboards and come to stand next to the bed, across from John. Within touching range, if John were so inclined. But John doesn't move, just lies there and watches with those limpid brown eyes, so Sherlock gathers his courage (it takes a surprising amount) and places a hand flat on the divot of John's sternum. The skin is warm, the light dusting of blond hair springy under Sherlock's fingertips. He glides his fingers upward a few inches, cataloguing the feel of how the hair curls around them, and tries to quiet the maelstrom of anxiety and worry in his brain. John couldn't want this. He couldn't possibly want someone inexperienced and prone to breakdowns and the wrong gender to boot-

"You stopped."

Sherlock glances up at John's face, the words startling him out of the downward spiral of self-consciousness.

"It's fine," John prods, glancing down meaningfully at Sherlock's hand on his chest. "Don't stop."

Sherlock is still inexplicably frozen, so John nudges upwards under his touch, which also has the effect of shifting his bare hip against Sherlock's clothed one. It's a casual brush, tangential, but it's enough to refocus Sherlock's attention downward to John's groin. And the obvious proof that no, he's really not making this all up.

"What-" Sherlock breaks off, swallows, the word scratchy on his tongue. "What do you want me to do?"

John's eyes are on his face. "Touch me the way you want to. You think too much, you know that?"

It earns him a speaking glance, a reflexive reaction to the phrase built over many repetitions between the two of them, but Sherlock starts gliding his hand over skin again. He looks at, but doesn't touch, the pinkish-white mass of scar tissue radiating outward from John's shoulder. The skin is puckered slightly, a textured blossom of permanent evidence superimposed on the smooth expanse of his deltoid and trapezius. A few tendrils sneak down to snake across his pectoral and bicep, just pale white lines, nothing visible around a t-shirt. He wonders what the back looks like, if it's as bad as the front.

"Want me on my side?" John asks quietly. He tilts his head toward his injured shoulder. "You've seen it before, in passing, but you're curious."

Sherlock nods silently.

John rolls so he's curled slightly on his side, facing away from Sherlock. "Was the bath the first time you'd really seen it up close? I know I don't walk around half-dressed as often as you do."

_If only_. Sherlock huffs, a barely-audible puff of breath. "Sometimes you sleep without your shirt on. When it's warm out."

John turns and regards him curiously. "You've watched me while I sleep, before you . . . okay, that really ought to be creepier than it actually is. I think you're rubbing off on me. Although I'm not really surprised."

Sherlock feels a sudden pang of doubt - _should I be apologizing? _- but then John twitches his shoulder and rolls it forward so Sherlock gets a better view of the exit wound. It's much like the front side, pale and angry-looking, but much larger. Shot at an angle, then, entering just under the distal end of the clavicle but most likely shattering the scapula on its way through. He's starting to get a better understanding of how traumatic John's recovery process must have been, how extensive and exhausting and yes, it makes sense that John would feel starved for adventure after that, he must have been laid up for several months before being allowed to do practically anything. In one smooth instinctive move, Sherlock ducks and presses a close-mouthed kiss on the direct center of the scar.

John jumps a bit, tensing, but relaxes again almost as quickly. "Mmmm," he breathes.

"Too sensitive?"

"Yes, but's the good kind." John rolls forward a bit further. "Do you want to keep going?"

_Do I? _Sherlock is feeling out of his depth, not at all used to this level of proximity with his lovers. Well, "lovers" being an inadequate term - "practical fucks," perhaps? Convenient but rushed blow jobs in between classes at uni, drug-fuelled hedonistic binges in run-down flats in the days before Mycroft and Lestrade forced him clean. Never anything that allowed time for things like casual exploration of each other's scars.

"It's up to you," John says softly, the patience shining through in his voice. Whatever Sherlock wants, John will do. Whatever Sherlock doesn't want, John will forego without complaint. _It's too much._

So Sherlock turns the question back on him. "What do you want me to do next?"

John turns, uncurling like a fern leaf, trying to visually assess Sherlock's expression. "I want you to be comfortable with me."

"What makes you think I'm not?"

John doesn't answer.

How could he not _see? _Sherlock leans over him, letting his clothed stomach graze John's naked hip, and wraps his fingers around John's erection. It's still a bit soft, but it's warm and twitches languidly under his hand. John's breathing alters a fraction, the rhythm changing, then it evens out again and John settles more onto his back.

"Is this good?" Sherlock hates not knowing, but admitting his ignorance is better than getting it wrong, or worse, _assuming _and then having John need to tell him to stop. John's autonomic nervous system is functioning well, at least - his erection is getting firmer with each stroke, jutting out from his body enough to counter gravity even though John is almost fully on his back now. John curls his own hand over Sherlock's clothed knee, the easiest part of him to reach.

"It feels good," John says quietly. "I trust you."

Sherlock eyes John's penis. _Cock. Dick. Prick. Pecker. _So many euphemisms for one piece of anatomy. This close, he can see how it differs from his own - not just the nest of much lighter hair behind it, but also in color and overall proportion. The head appears and disappears from view as Sherlock slides his hand up and down the shaft - not tightly, not without lube, but enough to slip the loose skin forward and back a bit and see the bluish raised veins just underneath the surface. Dry, the skin is so soft it almost feels fuzzy.

_I'm stalling._ He knows it, hates to acknowledge that it's true, doesn't even fully understand why. He's not afraid, is he? This is John - this penis is not a weapon. It has the potential, but no more than John's hands or teeth or feet or elbows. It's just skin and muscle and biology and if Sherlock wants to touch it, taste it, _do _things with it, there's nothing wrong with that. Not as long as John wants it too.

Before he can change his mind, Sherlock leans forward and nuzzles his noise into John's pubic hair. The tip of John's penis lies against his cheek, and it takes only a tiny correction in angle for Sherlock to sneak his tongue from between his lips and taste it. It's been a long time - years - since he's done this, and he's never before actually cared whether he was doing it right. Now, this time, it's suddenly imperative.

"John." He licks again, more firmly this time. It's ridiculous to be shy about this - he's got his face buried in his flatmate's groin, for Christ's sake. And he's never shy. He despises "shy" and John is moaning faintly and he's hard and his fingers tense a tiny bit over Sherlock's patella and this is nothing, no big thing at all, John wants it and it's good and he's happy to let Sherlock take the lead-

_Wait._ It's a terrible time for his brain to suddenly jump into deduction mode, but Sherlock can't help it. John is lying passively beneath him, eyeing him dispassionately with those brown eyes, perfectly content to barely participate in this round of sex other than allowing himself to be present. That's not what Sherlock wants, not what he wants at all, and suddenly it seems more important to resolve that than it is to get a more thorough taste of John's anatomy.

"Tell me," Sherlock says, his head still in place to ghost his breath over John's sensitive skin. "Tell me what you want me to do."

John brings his head up from the pillow, frowning slightly. "Anything, Sherlock. Do anything you want."

_Still not an answer._ "What do _you _want?"

John licks his lips, glances over to the left. Hesitates before replying. "I want you to do whatever you like with me. Just like we talked about. Touch me, taste me, fuck me if you want to. I want you to."

"I want you to tell me."

"I just did!" John props himself up on one elbow, eyebrows drawn together in frustration. "You wanted to touch me, so I'm saying touch me. I'm giving permission. None of what we did before was because I didn't want you, Sherlock. None of it. I don't know how else I can prove that to you."

Sherlock sits up, needing the space, needing to wrap his head around everything. "You're telling the truth," he says flatly. "You really just want me to lead."

"Yes!"

"Fuck." He spits out the word, as if the sour taste suddenly on his tongue were actually real. "This is intolerable - that's not you."

John scrambles to a sitting position also, shifting his naked hips backward to put a few more feet between them. It's obvious they're past the sexual part of the encounter and into the post-sex serious relationship talk, despite next-to-no sexual contact actually having occurred. John doesn't look upset, just resigned. "I don't understand," he says quietly. He sounds also resigned to that, to never understanding, and Sherlock suppresses a tendril of frustration. "Of course it's me; who else would it be?"

"You're not like that," Sherlock clarifies. "Passive. Submissive. I've seen you flirt with women - you're always the dominant one." John opens his mouth to object, but Sherlock talks over him. "No, I understand it's not in a whips-and-chains way, but they're attracted to you because of your assertiveness and your confidence. I don't need to have observed you in bed before to deduce that you've never in your life been the partner to lie back and just _let it happen._" He snorts. "No, when you're having sex you enjoy, you're initiating it."

John's face shutters. "You don't believe I was enjoying this?" He gestures angrily to his still-erect penis. "Kind of difficult to miss, don't you think?"

"Biology. An anatomical response brought about by direct stimulation."

"Damn it, Sherlock, I don't know what you want!"

_"I want you!" _Sherlock snaps back, louder than he intends, but he feels no remorse for it. "I want you to actually _fucking tell me_ what to do. I want you to assume. You say you trust me, but you don't. You think the only way we can do this is if you hide behind a wall of indifference."

"I'm not fucking indifferent," John grinds out. "I'm pissed, at the moment."

"You're hiding," Sherlock corrects. "If you actually trusted me, you'd stop lying to me about what you want and you'd just _do it._ And you'd trust that I'd say something if I wanted you to stop. But you don't, so you pretend this is what you want and you refuse to offer any guidance or opinions whatsoever and that way it's not about trust at all, it's just a pity fuck. Again." He slides backwards off the edge of the bed, so he can stand. It lets him look down his nose at John, which he doesn't normally do but suddenly feels the need for, needs to have that distance. "I refuse to be pitied. And I refuse to just go through the motions with you." He turns around - momentarily missing the swirl of his coat, one of his favorite indulgences while on a crime scene - and stalks toward the door.

"Wait!" John shifts his weight, tenses. "Where are you going?"

"To call Mycroft," Sherlock answers without turning around. "You may want to get dressed; I'm sure he's eager to talk to me."


End file.
